The Crow's Nest
by ImparedImpala
Summary: Throughout history the story of the crow has been associated with both positive and negative symbolic meanings. Destiny, Intelligence and Death. Possibly, there could be an unknown way of life even after such a mind numbing experience. A tantalizing partner in the pocket by your side and the scent of questions fill the air. You're in a timeline of your own at this point.


"Being an ingénue, is why you are exactly in this improbable situation." was the only thing that slipped from the male's lips.

Smoke rings slowly followed along in long and exciting wisps that soon dissipated into the cold nip of the December air that surrounded the two. In the faint distance, the soft paced muffling of Blondie played in the area around them as they continued to discuss with each other. "Why would you say something so unintelligent like that? Nothing about this was my fault at all."

The baritone chuckle of the other was uninvited as he took another long and probably much needed drag of his cancer stick, the ash potently sticking out with its bright arraying colours of crimson and orange. "Don't be so insufferable, I assure you that the events that have occurred are your entire fault and nothing at all can be changed. Nothing." That word, "nothing" was emphasized by being bolded in text that floated in the space above them. Several cars bumped and rambled on by, horns and everything added in was making more noise around them. Even the multiple passing strangers with their own conversations, which neither knew personally. "You stole from this man and unreasonably went with his partner, who actually didn't care about him and was always planning on leaving him as soon as possible. She left with you because that meant that she had a quicker way out, so she posed and play acted as if she had a liking for you."

His words rolled out, not stopping as the grey coloured haze came out with each word. The other was about to interrupt. But with a quick and swift hand, his large and manly one moved motioning her not to utter a single word.

"Because of this, she lied to you about everything that she told you, which this gang member of the west side of the city felt he needed to take action even to a woman of your stature. Though, still oddly showing some small and microscopic ounce of what I would guess could be called respect for a female, he sent his dirty work to one of his right hand men to, what people say." Pausing, just like the previous times before with another drag of the cigarette in hand, he continued. Miss Adler stared, her eyes agape in the glory or even her becoming towards the man's cunning deductions and knowledge…. which was news that nobody, not even a man such as him would ever want to hear. "He finished the job, Miss Adler."

Words spilled. No rough edges or even a stutter to show emotion towards the subject at hand. "I beg your pardo-" In an untoward moment, the still alit cigarette was thrown onto the pavement and stomped out, the redolent snuffed beneath them both. The male's head snapped upwards, strays of his hair flying into his eyes, the curls bouncing with his movement and the swift turn on the heel of his shoe. "Miss Adler, I hope you definitely do realize that we both have passed on. For me it was much longer ago than your own self. Take that into great and enormous consideration." An opulent smirk moved onto the cupid bow that laid upon his features while he fixed the slight collar on his jacket. "Knowing this information now, I do hope you find your way a whole lot better."

Life was oddly a whole lot better, with this new style and even outlook on existence. People never noticed you, or spoke to you anymore. Rather, they whipped right past. You were then an unnoticed shadow of society without most knowing. Though most would never utter a word on their feelings about this. The new life that they held now, the loneliness.

"You should learn to live without the drugs in your system."

"I don't really care what you say. I would do anything and everything the way I want them to be done."

Malingerer was possibly one of the main words that could describe him. That and also pompous. It wouldn't have mattered to him if the year was 1985 or in the distant future, everything revolved around him. Though it really didn't, and shouldn't.

"Sherlock, being 30 years of age by now you should-" the older man spoke. "-get an actual job and stop being such a drugged up junkie." Each word was spat out, dripping to the floor was hisses and disgust it appeared.

"I'm perfectly capable of my own life, Mycroft." He simply and startlingly replied.

Around the floor, the smell of smoke and other unknown 'gases' filled the atmosphere. Nobody could avoid them. To be easily stated, Sherlock was a junkie. Addicted and probably never going to change until the day he bit the dust. Many didn't show their care for him and even with him and his siblings bickering and blunt fights, Mycroft Holmes did care for his younger brother. Since the age of 17, young Sherlock Holmes had the connection to various and mysterious drugs of all sorts. This never left him throughout his life. Sherlock did in fact stop for about 2 years at the age of 23. . The world usually told him other wise and rather, he did not like or enjoy that. With his way of thinking Sherlock looked and observed through things more often and more in depth than the normal based man. Small details screamed out towards him and just by this, a person's life story could easily be read and told. Having an ability of being observing could break you or make you.

To quickly state, Sherlock did have dreams like any other person. Being a detective or, what he stated to be a consulting detective sounded ludicrous to anyone listening and picking up on the conversation. Nobody understood, and would never understand. The dream was soon dropped into the well of broken and forgotten dreams and drugs moved back into the young man's life …Out of boredom and with nothing to do, his addiction came back.

Both Mycroft and maybe even Sherlock knew that one day, maybe closer than anyone thought; Sherlock will have the possible chance of dying for one of the things he "needs".

"No you are not, me and anyone who sees you could clearly grasp that." Sherlock's eyebrows drew downwards, glaring up at him as he took a long and much needed drag of his cigarette. Multiple scenarios flashed through Mycroft's mind. What could actually become of his younger sibling? He knew death was an intimate end, no longer a statement of thought. It was reality now and there was no possibility of escape for Sherlock.

"You went to rehab twice, Sherlock and-"

"You also perfectly know that I truly dislike those facilities and have no joy to in them. I'm not like those imbeciles that go there to seek help." Numerous puffs of smoke formed around Sherlock's face as he let it out. "I know how much to take each time to not overdose of the drugs, like I stated-" Sherlock stepped from his loveseat, face to face to his "Dear" older brother. Oh, all the memories the two had that were now long forgotten.

"I am-" A smoke ring flew into the elder's face, making a ravenous cough lodge from his throat. Sherlock only smirked. "Capable." The pure arrogance of the sentence being spat at him only made things worse. Mycroft nodded firmly and walked out. His head hung low as he closed the door behind him of 221B. Soon was the only word that could be described.

-0-

A dark soul is what some might say filled the essence of Sherlock Holmes. Resident of Baker Street more like an unknown spirit of confusion. With his weird abnormalities mixed in with his supposed sociopathic ways, nobody understood Sherlock. Most didn't even want to. Every article of clothing he owned smelled of smoke. Retched smoke. His flat usually consisted of scattered bottles of liquor of many types. By the number, you could just guess on how much of the addicting elixir he consumed. The kitchen was ransacked almost on a daily basis for his search of new and full ones. Not only this, but he had experiments of all sorts running on and on. Not one person questioned, and not because they didn't want to know. People, were just too scared by the Holmes. Though, the above may seem to be of the worse, oh no the worse is soon to be mentioned as drugs come into the picture. Drugs were labeled his only friend that he could have. From cocaine to opium, Sherlock varied his choices in drugs. His favorite to be heroin. It flowing through his veins, taking him over in an obscure mindset that blocked out the world only for him and him only. Sherlock rather called it his "Mind Palace" where everything was just the way he wanted it.

In a very demure manner, the lank of a man paced. Sherlock began to unravel, perspiration dripping down his forehead, numerous times. The corner of his eyes burned terribly and cramps began to set in. Whispering was what he did. "Where did he put them?" he questioned, throwing unread books out of their cubbies and onto the carpeted floor. "Where the fuck did he put them?"

Sherlock was having withdrawals already; usually they would occur later during the day or even night. Not only a couple of hours later of his last hit. A vigorous growl rippled through his throat as he discarded the last book onto the floor beneath him. Gone, all of it was gone.

Sherlock flopped down into his chair, eyes moving around the flat. Its items disarmed and rattled about the room. Books of numerous types and kinds were practically un-read. Dishes in the kitchen all thrown inside the small excuse of a sink, even his latest experiment of the cause of music types to the emotion and to the brain waves was thrown over the dining table. Tremors ran throughout his body, up his spine, down his legs and even the very tips of his fingers. The feeling was unrelenting and unwanted on many levels. He needed a hit, just a quick one he thought to himself and he would be fine. Motioning up from the chair, Sherlock grabbed his jacket and strode out the door into the cold London air.

Various peoples rushed by in a quacking flash down the streets of London. Colours of many kinds that laid on everyone from hair to shoes. Sherlock, compared to them was drought on their "style", the only colour on him being a fluorescent purple t-shirt that stretched across his chest. His curled ebony hair fell into his menacing eyes, his cunning cheekbones could beat anyone in a contest and he had a lanky tall set. Sherlock was a fetching man that the majority of women went after when he was out of his flat. Rushing past clubs that blasted the music from the top charts of the day only distracted him from his goal. His mind was already rushing, throbbing with such irritation. Sherlock spotted the alleyway, his destination and his haven for the solution.

Soft whispers were heard in the darkness ahead of him, about two people clad in black leaned against the bricks of the buildings, one customer of theirs most likely leaving now. For that he has gotten his prize. An intake of breath and the smells he knew and came to love filled his senses. Sighing.

Sherlock was home.

Stumbling through the door, Sherlock slammed it behind his back with a single foot and blatantly flopped into his seat. He was ready, needy and oh so deadly with the mix of alcohol now in his system.

_Hard drive malfunctioning_

_404 Error_

_Cannot read information, please try again later._

Hopefully to most, he didn't short out or even break a fuse.

Decadence filled the room and the male's mind. Bookshelves became warped into colours and the room was just simply constructed of abled shapes. With a small unknowing noise which could only be described as a drunken daft idiot, Sherlock pulled various vials from his pocket and they clanked with enormous as the noise filtered the enclosure. Having such little information and knowledge of Sherlock Holmes and to the family name itself, no being would know what the raven in the pea coat would do.

Heroin could be and is one hell of a drug for any choosing, though a good choice some certain folks might convey. Preparations were bullyingly tedious tasks to uphold on, the anticipation for the injection and the liquid gold running in miles per hour, down the speed rails as you slip into the euphoric state of mind. Almost evocative.

The femoral vein. Quite dangerous and deadly with close to death injections with other said addicts. On the other hand, having his arm veins collapsing because of previous hits, there was no other way to go unless, his ways stopped and of course that would not happen. A lighter and a specific spoon was thrown onto the coffee table of the small flat while the owner and flat owner sat across from the items, his eyes staring down at them.

Several of his vials being moved into the mix made his blood boil with much anticipation for the ultimate feeling. In a jumble and a quick flash, Sherlock measured the amount as "closely as possible". His hands shook, trembling as he lifted the spoon to his eyelevel. A large amount, about 400 mg was poured. The summery of the lighter flickered on; the walls of the flat illuminated brightly, the colour practically speaking to him with a hazy state of mind. Desultory set in as he heated his treasure upon the metal. Bubbles popped up in excitement and bounced around as the warmth set it alight. Sherlock's eyes followed along with each movement in amazement and almost excitement stirred inside him. Sweat leisurely strolled down his forehead as he waited and waited. Light headed and slow, the man grabbed a single syringe and with a quick swipe upon his chapped lips, he simply struck the needle in. With no cares, Sherlock removed his trousers and thrown the unneeded cloth across the room. It was in evanescent time before he located the location and downloaded the newest installment into his system. Large sighs constricted from his throat and an enormous smirk of kinds played on his features. He felt it, it coursed throughout him and lazed. Back leaned against the couch that was posed against the wall for space, which was never used or even needed. Sherlock sat there on the floor of his flat, just in a simple pair of boxers and his shirt, a syringe still in hand and his eyes closed. The world sent on him, his mind was exploding and thoughts rushed into him like bullets. Everything was fast and it was perfect.

Simply perfect and nothing should ever be changed.

Limbs felt limp or even drowsy, though he was relaxed. The room was going in and out of vision and his chest burned with dyspepsia. Giggles came from him, the room being filled with load and victorious pure laughter from the man that usually kept to himself. Curling his toes, he threw the bangs from his eyes as he stared into the void that was the ceiling. To him, it held mysteries of the unknown that man would never know of. The thought brought a sinful smile to his face, his back falling into the cushions on the couch behind him.

Everything was so in line and almost nothing could ruin this moment, not even if Mycroft himself burst in. Sherlock felt all problems drift away for now, only for now. For this one time though, everything seemed to be more heightened. From colours, height of hearing and maybe even taste. It was an absolute time of pleasuring his senses. In the backdrop of the living space, the sounds and music's of Space Oddity played with its low rhythm and outstanding octaves of David Bowie. Each word pierced him, as if he was speaking to him and that even Major Tom stood in front of his presence. At times like this, the word sinner man fitted into a category that was affiliated with the name of Sherlock and the item of heroin. A penumbra formed beyond his state of thinking and mindset, to the real world that his presence was taking up in.

_System needs an update; please do not turn your computer off._

Sherlock breathed deeply, his chest inflating with air and then decompressing as he relaxed, having his mind speak to him and not the world. The tips of his fingers tingled in some way that could not be described as the same as his toes. Sherlock hummed to the song as an odd numbing insensibility filtered along his limbs in just short duration.

_Problems are occurring. Give us a moment to find such problems._

Halcyon. Sherlock was definitely feeling halcyon at this hour.

An hour has passed since he shot up and both his hands and feet are completely numb and oddly, his finger nails are blue from what he just slightly noticed. Eye sight was blurry and his head was light headed, attempts at getting up failed as he stupidly stumbled on his own feet.

_ERROR_

It's been two hours now and he was completely and utterly numb. Sherlock was tired and his eyes were drooping horribly as he strived to stay awake. Even with the feelings, his body was extremely lax, like never before.

He could perceive his heartbeat, the speed increasing as time passed by. His whole entirety of his body felt like he was inflamed and could not state the truth beyond the matter, Sherlock was scared. The room span as his eyes danced about and soon things became an unwanted rush of a spectrum. Colours and shapes formed with no clear image, the stage was being cleaned and unset and the spot light was amusingly flashing. About to break.

Sherlock didn't know what to do as he struggled for his life and he felt heavy, his limbs were like sandbags as he just left them on the floor of the flat and his vision blurred helplessly.

From the picture of things, his lips were an awful blue tint and that went hand and hand with his finger nails.

He couldn't breathe.

He was sinking unbelievingly deeper into the dawning chasm.

Sherlock's life was a visual as it flashed by and showcased the mistakes he made and the regret filled his last bit of being. He knew in his mind that he was dying, nobody was going to come and save him. All alone in his flat, Sherlock Holmes struggled for his life because of a dear and tragic mistake and stupidity ran through his body like every other attempt and usage.

Nothing different, he thought.

Then, he signed his death sentence with the syringe he used and nothing could have been done. Fate closed the door and locked it.

_SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN_

Failure. Pure failure.

And he felt it, the negligence. Sherlock felt the weight lift off of him as the sight in his eyes became black as nightshade and the time struck the witching hour, he could no longer feel the race of his heart. For now he didn't have the privilege to withhold one.

_SHUT DOW-_

He was a crooked man.

Now, I actually planned to have this darn thing longer but, oh well!

This has taken some time to write and I'm so proud of the results so far. So yeah. The story will be multi-chaptered though I don't know the amount of chapters so, If you go on this journey, that's great.

To those following me thank you and anyone who reviews or reads, thank you so much.

-ImparedImpala


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